


Ain't nothin wrong with a scar

by SeniorBro



Category: Red vs. Blue, rvb - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Finished, Fluff, M/M, Short One Shot, comforting fluff, old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeniorBro/pseuds/SeniorBro
Summary: Donut feels a little overwhelmed with his new facial feature, but good thing his rough tough n' gruff boyfriend is there to brighten up his spirits.





	Ain't nothin wrong with a scar

**Author's Note:**

> Suuuupppppppppeeerrrrr oooolllldddd one shot I did featuring my favorite dynamic dumbasses. I only fixed it up a little bit so it might not be the best but it certainly isn't the worst. Thanks for dropping by! - SeniorBro

There weren’t many reasons to take off your helmet during a war, but today seemed to shine a little brighter and fewer bullets skidded through the crisp winter air. Taking in the scent of frosty nature and old metal a young bright-eyed soldier sat on top of the Red base, idly gazing over the box canyon. He didn’t feel like thinking much at this hour, or working, or even moving. He just wanted to stare off in the familiar distance and forget. Forget about the war, his loneliness, his imperfections that seemed to hang over him possessively with an unrelenting grip over his mind. His hand subconsciously grazed over the tender flesh on the side of his face, lightly biting the inside of his lip as he felt the new feature. He hated it. Sharply sucking in a shaky breath he closed his eyes, begging himself not to let himself succumb to the nagging feeling of grief. Holding his breath he brushed his fingers over his eyelid, trailing his fingers to the other side. Lowering the hand he began to breathe once more, barely noticing he had stopped; but that didn’t bother him much. He had been trying to convince himself that the scar from the sticky bomb only made him manlier, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to accomplish that any time soon.

He felt it was too distracting, too rugged, too, too. . . He reminded himself to not think about it. Looking up into the dreary gray sky he let himself smile lightly, comparing the color of the winter clouds to his mood. Wandering off into the abstract world of his mind he barely noticed the clunking echo of armor moving lazily over the cool metal surface of the base. A light, familiar scoff, however, seemed to snap him back into this reality. Quickly fumbling to grab his helmet he panicked as he noticed the absence of it.

“Oh, hey there, Sarge.”  
He stuttered out, wincing inwardly at his awkward greeting.

“Mornin’ Private,”  
Sarge replied a little gruffer than usual.   
“There wouldn’t happen to be a reason as to why you’re shirking your work, is there?”

Donut swallowed thickly, straining himself to not turn to face his commanding officer.

“Why, don’t you know? It’s wine and cheese hour.”   
He said, making sure to at least sound decent as he waited in anticipation for a response.   
After a short minute of a silence, Sarge let out a soft sigh. He knew something was up, seeing as how Donut usually never lied about his afternoon rituals.

“Franklin,”  
Donut winced at the use of his name,   
“What are you really up here for?”

He didn’t want to say it out loud. Though he has thought it over and over again until it drove him crazy, he never wanted to admit it out loud. Especially not in front of Sarge. This was war they were in the middle of it, there was no time or place to be whining about scars or insecurities; even if Simmons seemed to complain about his self-confidence every minute or two. He needed to focus on other things, like how the snow froze some of their base equipment or sudden bullets and grenades being thrown their way. He needed to man up, he needed to show Sarge and the others that he could overcome simple things from war and carry on like the soldier he is.

 

But that didn’t stop the tears trailing down his cheek. It didn’t keep his lips from quivering, or his hands from wrapping around his built frame, somehow hoping to pull himself together with the subconscious gesture. Sarge only let a second of hesitation hold him back before he walked up and sat next to the Private and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling Donut closely to his side. Donut felt himself slowly collapsing into an abyss of emotions as he sniffled and sobbed and held onto Sarge, fearing that if he let go he wouldn’t recover from the mess he's made of himself. Sarge only sat there, softly caressing Donut’s waist softly. It was nice, comforting, and loving. Donut began to focus on the feeling, the pressure, the absences of warmth through the armor, but he remembered what his hands felt like. They were rough and large, warm and a bit dry; they were perfect to him. The way Sarge would slowly run his thumb over his scar, not wanting to interrupt the silence, only letting them enjoy the moment. He loved it the most when Sarge held his hands close to his scarred chest, warming them up on cold nights under the safety of their sheets. He always waited for those moments, always looking forward to the sun setting and the noises outside grow quieter as the Gulch calmed into the night atmosphere. Just to live in those seconds, those hours and minutes of knowing nothing would interrupt their time to lay down and just enjoy each other.

 

As his breath began to calm and his tears started to dry on his cheeks, the grip he had Sarge in lessened in intensity, but was still there.

“. . . Are ya finished yet?”   
Sarge asked, smiling softly down at him through his helmet.

Donut only responded with a light chuckle, appreciating that Sarge was there.

“Now, Private, mind tellin’ me what happened?”   
Donut felt a pinch of anxiety in his chest, fearing to let it grow.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Private,”

 

“. . .”

Sarge let out a heavy sigh, leaning away a bit to get a better look at the soldier.

“Don’t make me order you to, Donut.”

“I’m just,”

“Spit it out.”

“I, well,”  
He stuttered. He knew he would tell him sooner or later, but maybe later would be better.

“Franklin,”   
He looked up to him slowly, fearing anger and petty arguments that could come from this.

“Please, I can’t stand seein’ you like this and knowin’ I’m not allowed ta’ help. . .”

“. . .”

He thought over his words. He felt guilt, regret, selfish even. He couldn’t keep him worrying, but he didn’t want Sarge to look down on him over this.

“I’m sorry. . .”

“For what?”

“I just haven’t-”

“Haven’t what?”

 

“Sarge, please,”

“Sorry. . .”  
He bit his bottom lip once more.

“I just haven’t been feeling good about myself. About this,”   
He lifted his hand to point to the scar vaguely, that ugly, menacing scar.

Sarge furrowed his brows for a moment, then relaxed his features.

“Ya’ mean this little thing?”   
He gestured to the scar, letting a small smile lingering on his face as he ran his index finger over it lightly. Donut hissed softly at the feeling, not wanting to feel its ridges being trailed over in a way that made him feel like it was a natural thing of his. It almost made him feel sick, but he tried to ignore it.   
Slightly nodding his head, he looked down at the darkness of the base as the sun barely lit the canyon.

“Donut, there’s nothin’ ta’ worry about. Havin’ this just shows how tough ya’ can be.”  
He smiled half-heartedly at the comment, still discouraged to look up.

“Yeah?”

“You bet; Hell, there ain’t anyone I’ve met that walked away from a bomb to the face; and I’ve seen some horrid injuries mah’self.”  
Donut could only smile to himself, beginning to fiddle to Sarge’s hands.

“And ya’ know what else? You still look better than Grif after he cleans up. If he ever cleaned up. Stupid Grif. Matter o’ fact I take that back, roadkill looks better than Grif.”   
“Oh, don’t be so hard on him.”

“Yeah yeah, but what I’m sayin’ is you’re still a shinin’ star to me, Private.”  
Donut looked up at him, giving him the best smile he could work out. He really did love that man.

“Thanks, Sarge.”  
Taking off his helmet momentarily, Sarge let out a small chuckle as he leaned down to peck the scar softly, barely lingering over it as Donut’s cheeks flared up in   
shades of pink.

“There’s the Donut I know, all bright and chipper.”   
He gave Sarge one last smile before leaning up to plant a kiss on his chapped lips.

“I love you.”

“I know.”


End file.
